Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           

           ‘Hollo!’wasthesoundthatrousedhim.

           Helookedtotheright,buthesawnobody;hiseyeswanderedtotheleft,andpiercedtheprospect;hestaredintothesky,buthewasn’twantedthere;andthenhedidwhatacommonmindwouldhavedoneatoncelookedintothegarden,andtheresawMr.Wardle.‘Howareyou?’saidthegood-humouredindividual,outofbreathwithhisownanticipationsofpleasure.‘Beautifulmorning,ain’tit?Gladtoseeyouupsoearly.Makehastedown,andcomeout.I’llwaitforyouhere.’Mr.Pickwickneedednosecondinvitation.Tenminutessufficedforthecompletionofhistoilet,andattheexpirationofthattimehewasbytheoldgentleman’sside.

           ‘Hollo!’saidMr.Pickwickinhisturn,seeingthathiscompanionwasarmedwithagun,andthatanotherlayreadyonthegrass;‘what’sgoingforward?’

           ‘Why,yourfriendandI,’repliedthehost,‘aregoingoutrook-shootingbeforebreakfast.He’saverygoodshot,ain’the?’

           ‘I’veheardhimsayhe’sacapitalone,’repliedMr.Pickwick,‘butIneversawhimaimatanything.’

           ‘Well,’saidthehost,‘Iwishhe’dcome.JoeJoe!’

           Thefatboy,whoundertheexcitinginfluenceofthemorningdidnotappeartobemorethanthreepartsandafractionasleep,emergedfromthehouse.

           ‘Goup,andcallthegentleman,andtellhimhe’llfindmeandMr.Pickwickintherookery.

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Roboto Lora
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